


May Your Smile Shine On

by Huehxolotl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F, Featuring Snarky Y'mhitra, Fluff, Just two scions being clueless, Trauma, Useless Lesbians, While everyone around them Knows What's Going On, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 04:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: As if fighting in two wars wasn't enough, Lyse struggles to deal with her emotions in the aftermath of first Papalymo's sacrifice, then her friends dying in the ambush at the Reach and Y'shtola nearly dying for her sake. Once, she would have tried to run away, but she's different. Changed.Not that Y'shtola is about to let her pull away from them. Not when she's determined to make up for her own past arrogance and inattention.AKA: Two Useless Lesbians fall in love, and absolutely no one is surprised except for them.





	May Your Smile Shine On

**Author's Note:**

> So fun fact when you talk to Lyse right after the ambush, when she's sitting at Y'shtola's bedside, she says that she wished it had been her instead. I'm not sure about the exact wording, but I think it's what I quote in the beginning of this. It's close enough anyway. I couldn't doublecheck because I was watching someone else play at the time, but it made me want to cry.
> 
> So I wrote this instead! I had no plan for it, and it's probably badly edited, but, uh. Enjoy?

~After the Ambush~

 _“If it weren’t for her, I would be the one laying there._...I wish it was me.”

How many? How many times must she watch her friends fall? Watch them give their lives?

She trudges alongside the cart, painfully aware of the injured and dying comrades resting within.

Of _Y’shtola_ resting within.

_“Lyse, run!”_

Her jaw aches from how hard she is clenching it, desperate to contain her frustration, anger, and grief. It isn’t fair. It isn’t FAIR. Is everyone important to her destined to die? How could it be that _she_ continues to survive? What kind of terrible cosmic joke is this _hell_ that is her life?

Kysa Hext. So strong, so brave, loved by all. Killed in childbirth.

Curtis Hext. Charismatic and brave, inspiring hundreds, thousands of people to take back their freedom. Killed by imperials at the moment of what should have been a victory.

Yda. Defiant and determined, never resting, never giving up on their homeland. Killed protecting their countrymen.

Louixoux. A leader and scholar without rival, the kindest man she had ever met, respected by powerful people across Eorzea and beyond. Killed during the Calamity, giving his life for them all.

Her Scions comrades within the Waking Sands and the Rising Stones. Brave and true, all of them. Killed by imperials or by traitors.

Moenbryda. Her best friend, sister in all but blood, the one who helped ease the gaping hole that Yda left behind. Sacrificed her life to destroy an Ascian.

Papalymo. Her mentor. Her friend. The one who _insisted_ she was worth more than Yda’s mask and Yda’s name. The first person to ever remain so faithfully at her side. At least, until he forced her away, sacrificing his life to temporarily seal the primal and buy them time.

Meffrid. Loyal and caring and stubborn to a fault like a true Mhigan. He who helped her recover, train, and encouraged her when she had doubts. Killed by an _Ala Mhigan traitor_ right in front of her eyes.

And Y’shtola.

 _“Lyse, run!_ ”

Gods damn it all.

Odd, that of all the death she has witnessed, it feels like this one hurts the most, and Y’shtola isn’t even _dead_. Just. Nearly dead. Still and silent and covered in blood. It’s wrong. It’s so _wrong_. Y’shtola shouldn’t be still unless she is hunched over a book, shouldn’t be covered in blood or dirty at all because she is far too elegant for that.

Too elegant. Too smart. Too strong. Too _important_.

How dare Y’shtola take that hit for her. How dare she nearly die when it should be _her_ dying.

Their trek is a silent one, all others lost in their own grief. She barely manages to bring herself to pay attention to the meeting, until they mention Doma and how they plan to take the fight there. While the others leave to get their transportation ready, she takes one last chance to visit her friend.

Y’shtola is settled in the infirmary by the time the meeting is over. The healers have done all they can for the new arrivals, and though they continue to hover over their patients, they are currently on the other side of the room.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you for this. If I’ll ever forgive _myself_ for this,” she says, softer than a whisper. Hesitantly, she reaches out and brushes Y’shtola’s cheek with the back of her hand. The blood has been cleaned, but she still sees it there; still has it on her hands from when she carried her to the Barber’s. “It would have been fine if it were me, but not. Not you. Never you.”

She drops her hand and sniffles, not bothering to keep her tears at bay. Who here knows her enough to care? Who here will judge her? They already know that she is weak. Already know that she is incapable of protecting _anyone_ , no matter how hard she struggles.

“I don’t care what it costs me, but never again will I let you suffer for _my_ sake,” she growls through her tears.

She half expects to be scolded, for Y’shtola to scowl and declare that she will do whatever she pleases _whenever_ she pleases, including sacrificing her life for her friends if necessary.

She half expects Y’shtola to lay a hand on her shoulder as she did at the Wall, offering her silent support or nudging her to eat.

But she gets nothing but the groans of injured soldiers, the soft murmuring of the healers, the - _too light_ \- breathing of her friend.

Wiping her eyes, she takes a shuddering breath. “I’m going to Doma. Taking the fight against the imperials there. Just as well. Fighting is all I’m good for, though I’m clearly not any good at that either. ...“Empty,” he called me. I hate him, more than anyone I’ve ever hated, but he wasn’t wrong...was he?”

No. Zenos wasn’t wrong at all. Underneath her rage, underneath her grief and her pain, she feels nothing. Nothing but exhaustion and a desire to sleep for a thousand years.

“You’ll get better. You have good people watching over you. Reliable people.”

People that aren’t her, but she doesn’t say that out loud.

Taking in Y’shtola’s figure - _too pale too still too much_ blood- she commits the sight, the sounds, the smells to memory and swears to herself _never again_.

“See you later. Maybe.”

It’s a terrible farewell, but Y’shtola isn’t awake to scoff at her, and she can’t bring herself to say goodbye. Goodbyes are reserved for those who are gone and can never return, and Y’shtola isn’t among their number.

Krile is standing at the doorway when she gathers the strength to stand. Her expression is one she knows well; a mixture of grief and concern. How many times has she worn that expression herself? How many times has it been directed at her?

“Though I have not known her long, I know that you are perhaps the one she holds dearest amongst the Scions,” Krile says softly.

The words hit her harder than Zeno’s blow had, and she physically reels from how they stab her heart.

“And look where it _got her_!” she snarls, voice breaking mid-sentence, leaving her to force out her words with all the ease of a hunter pulling out a barbed arrow. Limbs trembling and eyes clouded by tears, she storms out of the infirmary.

 _‘I wish it were me_.’

~After Doma’s Liberation~

The Rising Stones are quiet, this time of night. Even the shinobi are resting or away, only two of them around to rush to her side. They take the news from home with grins, tears, hugs for her and each other. She tells them what she can quickly; she isn’t supposed to be here, took a risk in the extra teleportation, but there is something she needs to do.

The shinobi leave to inform the others that are on patrol or sleeping, and she slips into the back. Her body knows the way, carrying her forward even as her heart falters and her mind whispers for her to leave.

_‘I don’t deserve to be here.’_

Y’shtola’s door isn’t any different than any other door in the building. Plain, dark brown wood with metal hinges. Yet she stares at it, unable to touch it, to open it, to face what’s inside. How can she, after everything that has happened? After her she nearly got her killed?

She takes a deep breath and adjusts the packages in her hands.

Right. The presents. The least she can do.

She opens the door quietly, thanking Rhalgr, Thaliak, Nophica, and any god that wants to take credit that the hinges are well-greased.

Y’shtola is asleep, neither her ears nor her tail twitching at her presence. She isn’t sure if she feels cheated at the anticlimactic reveal or relieved.

Her approach is cautious. Despite what the others claim, she can be quiet when she wants to be, can sneak her way through a room in a way that impresses even Yugiri and the other shinobi. She learned to be quiet as a child, to keep from waking her too smart too strong too _exhausted_ sister. It helped her over the years, during the many times when grief hung in the Scion’s various headquarters after yet another loss. If she didn’t make noise, if she wasn’t noticed, no one would have to worry about her.

So she thought, but Y’shtola and Minfilia rarely let her get away with that for long.

She arranges her presents mechanically. First the small bouquet of flowers -all native to Yanxia, delivered to her by a solemn Yugiri- complete with a teal vase that she had bought in Kugane. Then the small boxes of dark chocolates from Kugane. Y’shtola enjoys chocolate in any form, but it’s the dark chocolates that are always gone first. A bag of hard candy is put down on top of the chocolates. While hard candy is not exactly a favorite of Y’shtola’s on a normal day, she tends to eat them when she is bored or working on something that keeps her from moving around.

Being bedridden after nearly dying is sure to make her bored, she thinks.

The last items -a beautifully detailed book about the legends and history of Doma, and a collection of sketches of the areas they traveled through- are added to the pile with hesitation. Books have never been her area of expertise, but she had spent _an entire day_ scouring a small bookstore in Kugane for something _just right_. Of course, the task could have been left to Tataru, who has settled in the city with an ease that startles the Scions and Hancock, but that defeats the whole purpose of presents! They’re supposed to be personal, even if she has no idea what she’s doing.

Y’shtola remains asleep. She looks better, healthier. Her hair practically glows again, and her skin is its normal brown. Not pale, or covered in blood and dirt. Hand itching to reach out and touch her, she backs away. Doing that when Y’shtola is sick and comatose is one thing; doing it when she’s healed is just _asking_ for a ruin to the face.

No. She’s done what she needed to, and now she has a war to continue. A war to _end_.

She crosses the room and closes the door cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief that her impossible task is done and over with.

“Oh, is she awake?”

There’s no shame in admitting that someone catches her by surprise; only in that she squeaks and nearly trips over herself trying to put distance between her and the intruder. Her back hits the wall with an audible thump, though judging from the sharp pain on the back of her head, it might have been her head that made the noise.

The woman staring at her is familiar and foreign both. She doesn’t know her, but she _does_ know her pure white hair, the slim profile, the arching eyebrow, and the expression that says “we both know you’re in the wrong but I’m going to make you admit it.”

Her mouth opens and closes repeatedly. What should she say? “Hi I’m just sneaking into her room in the middle of the night to drop off some presents but it’s okay because we’re friends probably,” or “Hi I’m the reason your sister nearly died nice to meet you” seem like terrible options.

Heart pounding, she mutters, “No. Sorry. I have to go,” and pushes past Y’mhitra Rhul even as she scolds herself for her rudeness.

Maybe someday she’ll find the woman and apologize for her attitude, but right now she needs to get _away._ There’s a war waiting for her, after all, and she only took this detour because she may never get the chance to again.

~Y’mhitra~

Door closing firmly behind her, she ponders the strange woman that had snuck out of Shtola’s room as she allows her sister to slowly wake from the noise. Shtola has always been a light sleeper, but with the nightmares that haunt her sister, she sleeps deeply in the rare times that she finds sleep at all. Her initial alarm at the intruder had passed quickly; it’s difficult to consider anyone a threat when they squeak so charmingly when surprised. The brief interaction afterward had been less pleasant, unfortunately.

The residents of the Rising Stones are a haunted group of people; having witnessed betrayal, the destruction of their homeland, or other losses, it’s hardly a surprise that those she has encountered during her visit seem to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders. But _that_ woman, she is different. The pain and guilt in her eyes -eyes bluer than the purest water crystal- had been fresh and heartbreaking.

_“The burden she takes upon herself, the losses she has endured, I continue to expect her to crumble under the weight of it all. And yet she smiles.”_

So that is the pugilist Shtola mutters of so fondly, though there was no smile to be found on this night.

“And what is all this?” her sister questions groggily, staring at the new items covering her bedside table.

“Potions first,” she orders, ignoring the petulant scowl Shtola sends her way. Crossing the room, she sits herself in the chair next to the bed and hands over the three potions her sister needs. “Your friend left these for you.”

Even at a glance, it is obvious that the gifts are tailored to Shtola’s taste; the flowers, bright and subtly fragrant, the sweets, and the books are certain to lift her grouchy sister’s spirits. The last items especially, and only decorum keeps her from snatching them off the table for a look herself.

“A friend…” Shtola’s curiosity is quickly replaced with realization and a fond smile. A smile that all too easily drops into a frown. “How long ago?”

She doesn’t want to upset her sister, but she cannot bring herself to lie. “Just now. She appeared to be in a hurry.”

As expected, the answer dampers the mood in the room, but Shtola does not react beyond a sigh and examines her gifts. Her movements are deceptively languid, as if she is merely curious and not nigh imperceptibly trembling with affection, frustration, _longing_?

The sweets are examined first, Shtola’s fingers tapping the side of the sturdy and highly decorated box they are contained in. “No present from Lyse is complete without food,” she whispers wryly.

The larger book is next. It is a beautiful thing, with silver trim and designs swirling together to form four fantastical creatures at each corner. There is no title, and the cover and bindings are sturdy, designed to last ages. This is no average fiction tome, but one meant for scholars.

“She must have kept herself quite busy, to afford such a thing.”

Shtola sets the book aside -she does _not_ eye the tome disappointedly- and picks up the next book. Though “book” is not exactly accurate. It is more a thread-bound collection of sketches and art prints. Some colored, some black and white, many more painted. As if that isn’t intriguing enough, behind every art print is handwritten pages filled with what Shtola announces to be retellings of Lyse’s journey in the Far East.

The smile that had dimmed returns, Shtola’s frustration and tension melting away as she is reassured of a friendship that somehow was in doubt.

“I’ll make us an early breakfast, if you’re to remain up,” she says. Though her curiosity concerning Lyse and her relationship to her sister is piqued, she feels that now is not the time for questions.

Shtola hums, but allows her to leave without her usual complaints of “you oughtn’t waste your time here” and “must you _hover_ so?”

Thoughts of Lyse the pugilist, grief, guilt, and how they relate to her sister’s condition race within her mind. It’s a puzzle; not a terribly complex one, yet one that cannot be solved without further information.

“Hey, can you reach those cookies for us?”

“Yozan! Be polite!”

“I was!”

Smiling at the children -Doman refugees, if she remembers correctly- she plucks the requested bag of cookies from the shelf. It is likely irresponsible of her to give children sweets so early in the morning, but she has a goal, and there is no harm in extra treats for growing children. “Early risers, are you? Did you happen upon Lyse?”

The two gasp. “She was here?!”

“Her visit was not an extended one. You know her well?”

The children waste no time launching into a tirade concerning their favorite trainer and occasional partner-in-crime. By the time she has breakfast cooked for Shtola, the children -including two more that wandered into the Stones- and herself, she knows enough about Lyse Hext to consider the woman a friend.

“She was really sad, before. That tall Archon lady was her friend, but she died. Minfilia disappeared. Then Papalymo died too. And Y’shtola was hurt. She tried to look normal when she left to Doma, but it was the same kind of normal that the grown-ups were when we were sailing away from home,” the quieter child of the bunch says hesitantly.

They fall silent, but only for a moment as a group of Domans rush into the room.

“Ah, children! There you are. Did you hear the news? Doma is free once again!”

Her informants are taken away from her then, but she isn’t concerned. She has all the information she needs to discern that her sister is _pining_.

“I assume the retellings are riveting,” she says when she enters Shtola’s room, plate of food in hand.

“Less retellings and more of a journal, though her descriptive technique requires work. It’s inconsistent and borders on being her internal monologue,” Shtola grouses. She would be more convincing in her annoyance if she weren’t grinning faintly, her eyes absorbing every word and painting greedily. Nose and ears twitching, she reluctantly closes the sketch collection/journal, putting it aside so that she may eat.

“Later, I shall take notes on what tales I need her to clarify, and what reckless actions I shall have to scold her for.”

 _‘Heartening as it is that my sister does indeed desire a partner, I do hope she realizes it herself within_ this _lifetime.’_

~After the Liberation of Ala Mhigo~

_“We are comrades, now and ever after.”_

The last time she had seen Lyse, they had been fighting for their lives as friends and allies were murdered around them.

Had been prone and defenseless as Zenos loomed over her, ready to strike and end her life.

“Here I am the one recovering from near-death, yet it is _you_ who is ready to fall over her own feet.”

Lyse sighs, but doesn’t deny the accusation. The others have all scattered; either because they have work to do or because she subtly _reminded_ them that they have duties to attend to. Underhanded - _possessive_ \- it may have been, but Lyse near _reeks_ of exhaustion, and for such a social creature, she tends to desire solitude when stressed.

“Are you planning to rest?” she asks, keeping her tone light as she holds out her arm. “Or do you have time for a quick tour?”

The way Lyse’s eyes shine, the weight of her troubles lifting from her soul at the simple action, is contagious. She feels herself smiling as her arm is taken and she is led through Ala Mhigo. Lyse eagerly rambles away, sharing all the things she has discovered about the capital city since the liberation. They ignore the blood stains, the remnants of imperial armor and machines, the scorch marks, and the rubble. There has been enough talk of war and reconstruction in Lyse’s meetings, she thinks, and Lyse deserves _some_ freedom from such talk. Even if only for a bell or two.

What they cannot ignore are the greetings from civilians and soldiers alike. Lyse is a popular figure; she is spokesperson for the Resistance, and had fought on the frontlines in every battle. Eyes watch their every movement out of reverence, fear, or gratitude. More than a few gazes linger on their entwined arms, but she pretends not to notice, and is certain that Lyse doesn’t at all.

The tour is brief. Many of the streets are in the process of being cleared and the traffic on the main roads is unbearable. She gives no objection when Lyse nervously asks if she minds heading to her tent. The teleportation and tour have drained much of her strength, and she wouldn’t mind a snack or meal if possible.

“My soldiers were kind of upset when I insisted on using a tent instead of sleeping in one of the buildings, but others needed the space more. I don’t have much anyway, and I barely get to sleep, with all these meetings!”

“Indeed,” she agrees wryly. There is naught in the tent but a bedroll, a backpack, and two stray ration bars. Considering the last with barely hidden disgust, she remembers her own present. So intent on getting Lyse alone and away from stressors that she did not think to give it to her on their tour. “If that is what you intend to consume for dinner, full glad am I that I have snacks for us both.”

Lyse protests both the admonishment over her food stores and her intent to share food. “You’re _healing_. You don’t need to worry about-”

She silences her friend with a glare, knowing exactly how that sentence was meant to end. “You are my friend and comrade. One who has thrown herself into a war after losing a dear friend. I will worry as I please.”

Surprisingly, Lyse, though initially shocked, responds with bark of laughter. “Yeah, I figured,” she mutters with a shake of her head.

Her first instinct is to be smug at the concession, but something about the knowing smile infects her with an emotion that is far too much like embarrassment for her comfort. Wishing to drive that feeling away, she pulls out a pile of foodstuffs from her pockets and bag.

“The Domans have sent gifts as well. The children in particular were quite adamant that I deliver plenty of food. ...Hoary Boulder insisted that I remind you that your squatting competition has not yet concluded.”

Lyse grins smugly, and their conversation flows easily as they eat. Though the sketch journal had been quite descriptive, the hastily scratched words cannot compare to Lyse’s animated retellings. She speaks of Kugane and fish, the Ruby Sea and pirates, of turtles and blessings, of the Azim Steppe and warriors born to fight.

She speaks of Alisaie, whom she momentarily feared lost. Of large and loud Gosetsu, whom _was_ lost. Of a kind Mol woman named Cirina. Of a prince named Hien Rijin.

For a moment, as Lyse’s eyes shine when she speaks of the man become king, she regrets her curiosity.

“Commander! You’ve been requested to attend-”

“Let me guess. Another emergency meeting,” Lyse finishes for the soldier who peeks into the tent apologetically. The transformation in her friend is painful to watch. Within an instant, she changes from a smiling, relaxed woman comfortable with her company to a leader bearing the weight of the world.

Lyse rests a hand on her arm, and she notes that at some point they moved close enough that she can feel her body heat.

“If you don’t want to teleport back, I can get someone to set up a spare tent-”

“This will suit me fine.”

“Eh. What?”

“Wake me when you return.”

“H-hold on. Are you sure-”

“Did you not say this meeting is an emergency? You ought to hurry off now.”

The pout she gets for her stubbornness is out of place with the rest of her demeanor; a flash of the true Lyse before it’s once again buried beneath the severity required to deal with her responsibilities.

Her friend has grown and changed. The journey had been good for her, perhaps partly because she was away from those who coddled her. Papalymo, for all that he wished for Lyse to stand on her own, was particularly guilty of such behavior, but the Scions all share the blame. So eager to play along with her false identity, they never thought to build up her courage and self-confidence, in spite of the many signs of her continued struggles.

That she would be so unconfident in their friendship that she assumed they would abandon her for discarding Yda's name.

That she would be so surprised when she declared them comrades and friends regardless of the organizations they belong to.

She is not accustomed to the feeling of failure, but she, once again, realizes that she has most assuredly failed her friend on a deeply emotional level.

In spite of her troubling thoughts, sleep takes her before long. Lyse does not return that night, but slips into the tent near sunrise. Though usually one to rise with the sun, her injury and extended confinement to bed has seen her weaker than she appreciates, and she nearly misses her friends presence due to her deep slumber.

“Lie down, Lyse. Doubtless you are exhausted.”

“No, no, no! I’m not going to make you move-”

“I had not intended to. Lie down,” she says bluntly. Her tone is too sluggish to be truly intimidating, but Lyse rarely dares to defy her.

“...Fine, but only because my brain has been turned into mush after that mess.”

Tempted as she is to comment about how easily Lyse’s mental facilities are exhausted, that is both too much energy for her to articulate and a disservice to her friend. Lyse is smarter than she gives herself credit for; smarter than the _Scions_ often give her credit for.

“It’s a good thing you’re so short. Bedrolls aren’t made for two people.”

“...Do not think me above banishing you from _your own bed_.”

“Hah. I know better than that.”

Lyse is quick to crawl under the covers. Ala Mhigo is far colder at night than during the day; a disparity that rivals Thanalan for its greatness. Though she already has two passably thick blankets, she cannot help but purr at the extra warmth her friend brings. Small as the bedroll is, cold as the air is, her sleep-addled mind finds little reason _not_ to cling to Lyse.

They wake to yet another messenger, calling Lyse to yet another meeting. The messenger is answered by two highly unhappy groans and curses. Much as she would like to stay for several more bells, duty demands her friend’s attention. It will be years before Gyr Abania will be stable, and Lyse will be there every step of the way. Which, unfortunately, means many more meetings such as this lie in her future.

As her friend, she will do everything possible to aid her and, if she recalls correctly, she has a sennight free. What better use of her skills than assisting the local chirurgeons? It has not been so long since Ala Mhigo was freed, and there will be many a soldier wanting for healing.

Her offer is accepted with an enthusiasm that borders on hero-worship. The healers are a mix of people that belong to the various city-states, but all know the Scions. She is quickly asked to assist with the emergency patients; those suffering from infection and fever due to large wounds and a dire lack of medicine. Her day passes quickly after that, with patient after patient needing tending. The city is sleeping when she is given leave to shower and return to Lyse’s tent.

In hindsight, she ought to have left a message.

“I’ve returned.”

“AAAHH! Y’SHTOLA!? What? How? Why?”

“Such questions I should be asking _you_. Look at yourself!”

“I’m trying to _change!_ ”

“Don’t bother putting that shirt on. Why did you not have your injuries tended to?! _Sit down_!”

~Limsa Lominsa~

“Wow. The last time I was here, we didn’t have much time for sightseeing.”

Nor had she been in the mood, having watched friends and comrades be cut down by imperials; by the _Skulls_.

And Y’shtola had been. Gods.

An orange appears in her vision. “They’re most flavorful when fresh.”

“Even _I_ have limits, you know. I’m more stuffed than dodos at an Ul’dahn feast!” she grumbles, taking the orange regardless. She can’t help that the food in Limsa is just so _good_. Food is a precious commodity in Ala Mhigo, most of her meals being ration bars, jerky, and hunted game; assuming she remembers to eat at all. The sweets from earlier had been pure heaven.

Carefully copying Y’shtola’s actions, she peels the orange while taking in the sight of the docks below the walkway where they have settled. The lateness of the day does nothing to lessen the traffic, but they are safe sitting on the ledge.

Limsa Lominsa is a true testament to man’s ability to rebuild. Looking at the city now, she wouldn’t have guessed that it had been all but destroyed in the Calamity. It’s a bit jarring, honestly, coming here after so traveling and fighting and arguing with politicians for so long. There’s a cool sea breeze where Ala Mhigo’s is hot. Blue sea and blue sky where Gyr Abania is often bathed in crimson. The people are lively and happy, where her countrymen are tired and battered.

But if there’s anything that’s the same, it’s the scent of salt lingering in the air.

Biting down on the orange slice, she is pleasantly surprised by its sweetness, and less so by the juice that splashes into her eye.

“Ahk! Ow ow ow.”

Y’shtola chuckles at her clumsiness, and though she enjoys her friend’s rare laughter, she would rather it be at something less personally painful. Oranges burn! But, wow, they’re tasty…

“Be wary of the juice,” Y’shtola comments, head tilted and fist resting against her cheek. Her typical smirk does not fade even as she carefully eats her own orange slice.

‘ _Cute_.’

Sighing mournfully, she rubs her eye and says, “I bring you a present and this is how you treat me.”

“Oh?”

Her words catching up to her, she hastily eats more of her orange as Y’shtola waits for her to explain. Rhalgr save her, she hadn’t meant to reveal that she had a present! Mostly because she hadn’t decided whether or not to actually give it to her…

“It isn’t really. Anything great. It’s just. Um. A little late because I was so busy and. Actually, it’s kind of dumb and-”

“Lyse,” Y’shtola says firmly, a glint in her eyes daring her to continue her rambling.

Trailing off, she reluctantly reaches into her bag -the one she claimed was for souvenirs and treats- and pulls out a book identical to the art book she had given Y’shtola after Doma’s liberation. It’s contents are much the same, only they’re about the Gyr Abanian portion of her journey.

She had been excited about the book while she had been putting it together, but there were things written that, upon later reflection, bordered on _too_ personal and embarrassing. It was almost a journal, really, and her thoughts are scattered even when written. The pleased expression Y’shtola gives her when she reveals the present almost makes it worth it, though.

Almost.

“I thought that it was the least I could do. Since I’m the reason you were hurt.”

That is the _wrong_ thing to say if Y’shtola’s sudden glare is any sign, but she isn’t going to take back her words. Not when they’re the truth.

“I shall properly peruse it when I return home,” Y’shtola eventually says, thankfully unwilling to argue about her guilt complex yet again. They’d had enough of that during the sennight she stayed to help the healers in Ala Mhigo. “If it’s as riveting as the first, it will be well worth the lost sleep.”

‘ _Riveting?_ ’

Her cheeks flush and her eyes look anywhere but her friend. “Oh, uh. Thanks. I’m...glad you liked it,” she says haltingly. Gods, why does her chest feels so weird and heavy? This is worse than the night she was forced to undress so her wounds could be tended.

A hand on her knee shakes her from her thoughts.

“As we did not have time to discuss it before, perhaps you can speak more of the Mol and their customs.”

Perking up at the mention of Cirina’s peaceful clan, she earnestly launches into as detailed an explanation as possible concerning the myths and legends of the Steppe. She is no scholar, but she has found that she enjoys living among and learning about new peoples, and the Mol children had been very obliging during her stay with them. All the Mol had. Talk about a misleading first impression of the Steppe, though, and her stories eventually devolve into a long complaint of Magnai and the other Oronir.

The hand on her knee remains until the sun begins to fall and they reluctantly call their meeting to an end. As much as she wants to return to the Reach to sleep off the ridiculous amount of food she has eaten in the last half a day, she highly considers refusing to tear herself away from their parting embrace.

~After Skalla~

_...The tunnels were rife with spells and traps! Not to mention weird ghost monsters. There were lots of books though, with old writing. It looked like your kind of deal, so I’m officially extending you -and anyone else you want along- an invitation to investigate. Anything that isn’t gold or historically significant is free for the taking. Or for sale. I’ll leave that up to you, if you choose to take the offer. You’re one of the only people I would trust to give a fair examination…_

The Y clan that made its home in Sharlayan is a quiet family; filled with scholars and researchers. As with many of the families that call Sharlayan home, children are raised to be composed and curious.

Mhitra is currently living up to the _latter_ trait, though is less composed and more bouncing around and muttering to herself in a manner reminiscent of _Lyse_.

“Be still, sister. I fear you may bounce off the cart, at this rate.”

Mhitra stops and scowls at her. “ _You_ could do to show a little more excitement. Looking at you, none would suspect that you travel to see your _dearest friend_.”

The infliction on those last words raises her hackles, and the deceptively pleasant smiles they give each other are a poor disguise for their animosity. The others subtly scoot away from them, unwilling to draw attention.

Traveling across Gyr Abania with fellow scholars has left their patience quite...thin.

For all that it was the site of the ambush and her near death, she is pleased when they arrive at Rhalgr’s Reach. The Reach hardly looks worse now than it did before the ambush. With the structure already in disrepair due to the Mad King’s attack the year Lyse was born, and the Resistance’s general lack of funds and supplies, a few more crumbling pillars hardly make a difference.

Lyse, unsurprisingly, has idly spoken of rebuilding it.

_“It will never be what it once was, and Widargelt doesn’t want to make use of it either. The temple itself we won’t use for now, but this, here, this is ours. Well, maybe. I'm not sure if we'll stay here permanently, though there really is no better location for me to keep track of the Fringes.”_

_“Hmm. A much less daunting prospect than single-handedly rebuilding_ all _of Gyr Abania.”_

 _“Getting a proper road made to increase trade from Gridania is the first order of business, but that’s going to be trouble enough. The books_ _I have to read. The_ math _I have to do!”_

On a merchant front, the Reach is off to a good start. She spots stalls that look to be Rowena’s, and there is a lively crowd that is more civilian than soldier. A promising sign for the future.

Behind her, the scholars mutter about the potential in the ruins and temple beyond them. Though those here are not strictly experts on Gyr Abanian history, some have an interest in the techniques of the monks that made them such fearsome warriors. Truly, the Fist of Rhalgr remains one of the most powerful groups in history; so the martial arts enthusiasts among them claim.

They are passing near a collection of tents that hosts the local arms mender when something puts her on high alert. Her ears twitch at the sound of awfully familiar footsteps, a quick staccato almost too light for even Miqo’te ears to catch. Her years of experience recognize the footsteps as belonging to Lyse, but she isn’t expecting to be _assaulted_. Ears immediately folding flat against her skull, she gasps when Lyse clasps her so tightly she feels her breath escape her and spins her around.

“Hi! I have a meeting to get to so I can’t talk but Naago has some papers for you and a preliminary inventory of their findings and don’t forget to eat before you leave it’s a long trip okay bye!”

And then she is gone before she can even regain her footing after being released from her arms.

“My, that was an enthusiastic greeting,” says the last voice she wants to hear at...most times, honestly. “She didn’t even leave you time to give her a “yes dear,” though. Shall we ask her to come back?”

Glaring at Thancred, who strides out of one of the larger tents, she flexes her fingers and mentally recites ten different spells powerful enough to send him over flying over the cliffs. All would leave a rather large crater of destruction, however, and she has no desire to add to Lyse’s workload. “Thancred. Haven’t you some spying to do? Or a saltery to overwatch?”

He smiles widely -some would say roguishly- at her icy tone. “Absolutely, but I _am_ capable of multitasking.”

“A young woman was in need of an escort to the Reach, I assume?”

“....Two.”

She scoffs, pretends she doesn’t feel Mhitra’s curious stare and the many questions she now has, and shoos her comrade away. There are reports to receive, food to be acquired, and tea for headaches to be made before they resume their journey. The scholars among them are happy to resupply. More than a few stomachs had been rumbling in the last two bells, her own included.

Mhitra, unsurprisingly, shadows her footsteps on the way to the commander’s tent.

The command table is a mess of papers, books, and scrolls. Above one pile, she spots the tips of M’naago’s ears and her spiky hair.

“How fortuitous it is that we have an excavation team among us. I believe you require one, Lieutenant.”

M’naago groans and what little of her is visible disappears. From the muffled thump they hear, her head must have hit yet another stack of files before her. “I’ve been abandoned. Is it too late to retire? I’ve done enough paperwork for ten lifetimes.”

“Would you rather be dealing with Rowena’s merchants and politicians? I’m sure Lyse’s next meetings have not yet beg-”

“Here’s your papers!” the soldier interrupts, tossing three scrolls over the pile. “Get anything you want from the merchants. Put it on Lyse’s tab. She won’t care, if she even remembers that she's getting paid. Hmph, anywway. Can you get her some snacks while you’re at it? She really needs to eat. And sleep.”

The last sentence is muttered with exasperation, and perhaps isn’t meant for any ears but M’naago’s. Nevertheless, she frowns and leads Mhitra away with an absent thanks. Lyse has people to look after her. She will be fine, stubborn and reckless and absent-minded though she may be.

Unfortunately, she has no chance to speak to Lyse beyond handing over the snacks she acquired for her, and when they arrive in Ala Mhigo, the group begins their excavations immediately. The runes and spells left by the Mad King’s mages are horrifying and captivating both. Much of her time is spent down in the tunnels of Skalla, piecing together Theodoric’s rapid descent into madness with the books, journals, and blood-stained messages -pleas for help- left by those whose only crime was to be competent or to attract the king’s attention.

She finds herself grotesquely fascinated. It is one thing to read of such atrocities in her books and scrolls, but walking among the evidence herself, holding the original -untouched for decades- bloody journals herself is an entirely different feeling. It’s _thrilling_ , in spite of the danger and horror behind their creation.

This excitement must be what drew Mhitra into becoming an archeologist.

The days she is not underground she spends in Ala Mhigo proper with Lyse. She finds a captive audience in her friend, who grimly absorbs the tales of Ala Mhigo’s last monarch and his victims. Lyse has never been bent toward scholarly pursuits, easily bored as she is by pedantic facts, but history turned into tales are an exception.

Their meetings occupy most, if not all, of the day, and somehow become frequent occurrences. The end of the moon sees her on a first name basis with the local shopkeeps and half of Ala Mhigo’s Resistance members. Ala Mhigo, much like the Reach, is slow to recover, but there are noticeable changes in the city during her stay. Reconstruction is coming along, most of the burn marks and rubble now cleared from the streets.

Rebuilding though the city may be, they spend only their mornings in the merchant’s quarter.

“I’ve been taking _all_ my medicine! Even though it’s gross!”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Lyse nods and makes an impressed noise.

“You certainly have recovered significantly, but have you been drinking your _tea_?” she asks primly.

Bente, a girl of seven years and daughter of a Resistance sergeant, looks away and sticks out her tongue.

Again, Lyse nods and vehemently agrees with her.

Subtly stepping on Lyse’s foot, she gives the child a sharp smile. “Two cups a day, before and after bedtime. _No_ exceptions, or your cough will return stronger, and I will have no choice but to prescribe a _much stronger_ tea.”

The threat is grudgingly accepted by the stubborn child while Lyse pats her shoulder sympathetically.

“Thank you for all of this. As busy as you are...” Sergeant Hallvard starts, only to trail off when she waves her hand.

“Think nothing of it, Sergeant. We _both_ enjoy visiting.”

Hallvard sighs, but he relaxes and switches the topic to the health of the neighbor children. The sergeant, like many Ala Mhigans, is widowed. His wife and oldest two had been lost to disease a mere year ago, and his youngest, Bente, barely survived herself. Hailing from Ala Ghana, they had moved into his sister’s house in Ala Mhigo immediately after the liberation. Using his wages to support his family, his sister -who had lost her entire family to imperials and disease- watches over Bente and acts as a caretaker for other local children when necessary.

It’s a sad tale, but not an uncommon one. Gyr Abanians have suffered indignity after indignity, loss after loss. The emotional and mental trauma will haunt the citizens for generations to come. There is no helping that, but the very least she can do is provide medicine and her healing abilities in the service of innocent children.

“ _You_ are a questionable influence, Lyse.”

Her friend grins at her as they walk down the street. Both their arms and cheeks are covered in red and purple paint courtesy Bente’s eager artistic abilities. It is nearing evening, the temperature cooling into something tolerable and people beginning to emerge from their homes for evening shopping. Midday is, much like Thanalan, a time to be indoors and resting, leaving the evenings and mornings as the busiest parts of the day. Even so, they are given a subtle berth, plenty of smiles, and whispers on their walk.

“The Commander making her rounds.”

“Is she going to be moving to Ala Mhigo?”

“The Hext girl really is something.”

“I’ve heard about those Scions.”

And even more quietly, “Hext and her woman on their usual date.”

Her ears twitch, but the offender is impossible to pick out from the crowd.

Not that it’s the first time she has heard that rumor during their outings. They are words fueled by the frequency they are together, by how closely Lyse holds her when they are out, by -so Mhitra claims- the way they smile at each other, as if they two are the only occupants of the world.

She thinks it a _gross_ exaggeration, but Mhitra -and apparently most of Ala Mhigo- is prone to romantic fancies.

“It’s going to be busy, the next few days. The meeting has everyone excited,” Lyse says after they have dodged their way through the inn’s common room. The stairwell leading to her room is blessedly quiet compared to the racket on the main floor. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Of course. I’ll not leave your safety to chance.”

Lyse sighs and rubs the back of her neck wearily. “Yeah. Most of those I’ve invited or have been nominated to come are elders and civilians. Not soldiers. If anything were to happen, protecting them will be an added complication. I mean, Raubahn will be there, but even the Bull of Ala Mhigo is only one man. It’s nerve wracking, when I let myself think of it.”

Stopping at her room, she rests a hand on Lyse’s firm bicep and squeezes gently. “You aren’t alone in this, Lyse. Did I not tell you once before? We are comrades now and ever after. Have faith, and allow us to share in your burdens.”

She isn’t surprised when Lyse’s hand rests on her own while she expresses her gratitude, or when the other wraps around her waist and pulls her in for a hug. The more time they spend together, the more comfortable Lyse becomes with the simple physical affections that she refused to allow herself to indulge in during her years as Yda. Though she cannot be so casual with her soldiers -not even M’naago- the other Scions have noted her new propensity for physical affection.

The twins are unsure of how to deal with it, being unused to such casual affection from their comrades, but Thancred and her are quite proud. They who have known Lyse the longest among the Scions are thrilled to watch her come out of her shell.

She personally cannot deny that she takes great joy in receiving a hug whenever Lyse departs her presence, nor that she herself has notably increased her own level of physical affection. She blames it on the infectiousness of Lyse’s smile and the warmth of her enthusiasm. To reject her newfound closeness would be cruel; not that she ever entertained the idea of doing so.

Lyse pulls away after a long moment, just enough to look down at her with a mischievous grin. “Just to be safe, I’ll ask Y’mhitra to accompany you.”

All thoughts of how comforting and strong Lyse’s arms are quickly fade, replaced with a familiar exasperation. Ears twitching down, she scowls. “I forgot our meetings _twice_. That’s hardly cause for-”

“Five times.”

“...I did not forget and was not at fault on those other occasions.”

“The cave-in was-”

“Unavoidable.”

“-absolutely your fault.”

“Oi, your room is right in front of ye,” a stumbling patron mumbles, words slurring together in a clear sign of inebriation. “Can’t ya flirt in there?”

Friendly banter immediately gives way to awkwardness. Coughing, Lyse backs away and drops her hands. “I, uh. I should be going. Good night,” she says sheepishly, cheeks light pink.

She _isn’t_ disappointed, _isn’t_ longing for Lyse’s hands and Lyse’s arms, so she forces herself to smile, wish her friend a good evening and demand her to rest before entering her room.

“Is your date over so soon? You usually stay out much later,” Mhitra, lounging on her bed and flipping through the pages of a book on Gyr Abanian history, asks idly.

“Should you not be sleeping? We have an early morning tomorrow,” she responds with a light snarl.

“So claims the one just now returning from a _date_.”

“Your romantic notions are decidedly unwelcome.”

“How adorable that you think it a mere “notion,” Shtola. If it eases your anxieties, I wholeheartedly approve of your taking Lyse Hext as a mate. Our father will love her.”

“ _Mate_? You are getting far too ahead of yourself!”

“Interesting how you do not deny the possibility.”

Deciding that continuing the conversation is only fueling her younger sister’s interest in her non-existent love life, she refuses to respond, instead wordlessly preparing for sleep. Yet, slipping into bed, she cannot help but dwell on Mhitra’s accusations, on the rumors that grow with every sennight, and on how dearly she holds the memories of falling asleep in Lyse’s arms.

~After the betrayal~

Her days after the meeting pass in a blur. With the disaster of Lakshmi’s summoning, Raubahn’s decision to stay, and her being formally stationed at the Reach as commander, she has spent all her time going over paperwork, and maps, and more paperwork, and notes with the other leaders, and...more paperwork.

A sennight later and this is her first night totally free -rather, Naago had threatened to burn her chocolate stash if she didn’t rest- and what better way to celebrate freedom than by spending time in good company?

Except the twins and the estimable Warrior of Light had left to Kugane, Thancred is the gods know where, Krile has gone to investigate some island, and Naago will put an arrow through her eye if she shows her face in the office; even if her plan is to lounge about it.

Y’shtola is the only option left; not that she’s complaining about _that_. She doesn’t like to admit that she has favorites among the Scions, but there truly are none left alive who can compare to the history she shares with Y’shtola and Thancred.

“Gods, what did Naago’s mom _put_ in this?” she chokes out, wiping tears from her eyes. Her face and throat burn from the drink. Though that might be from how much she coughed from forcing it down.

Next to her, Y’shtola is in a similar state, and she takes a moment to appreciate seeing her ever dignified friend so out of sorts. “Perhaps we should take this one slowly.”

Neither of them are unused to drinking; in fact, they have a necessarily high tolerance for it. Nothing like Thancred -who, in turn, was a lightweight compared to Moen- of course, but they aren’t comparable to the twins, who both become tipsy with a single glass of wine.

Truthfully, she hasn’t had anything stronger than wine since Doma had been liberated. She barely has time to breathe, much less spend nights drinking. Her work is hard enough without trying to do it while drunk -not to mention _way_ too important- and her free days are reserved for visiting Y’shtola, bothering Alisaie, or sleeping in.

The alcohol tonight had been provided by Naago’s mom, who had been a highly amused witness to Naago’s lecture about not getting “proper rest” and how she needs to “delegate instead of working herself sick because that’s what having subordinates is even _for_ by Rhalgr.” M’hahtoa had smiled during the entire speech, then offered her a bottle of her “special blend” and a meal.

She hadn’t declined the meal -M’hahtoa is an _amazing_ cook- but the alcohol she wanted to save.

_“Planning another date with Y’shtola?”_

_“Hah. What._ Date _? Don’t. Don’t be ridiculous! We aren’t!”_

_“Ah, she’s busy today, is she?”_

_“...Yes. She had to push our meeting back a day.”_

_“Well...I’ll let you finish work today, but once you go to sleep you aren’t allowed near a_ single piece of paper _for three days, got it?!”_

Sipping on her sweet but very strong drink, she tries to convince herself that this isn’t a date. Sure, she takes Y’shtola out to eat pretty often, and sure, they seem to always be _touching_ each other, but they aren’t _dating_. She doesn’t know _how_ to date. What even are relationships?

Messy, complicated, scary. That’s what. Who would want to date a -former- fraud who’s always in over her head anyway? Definitely not extraordinary and beautiful Y’shtola who almost died for her.

So. They _aren’t_ dating. Nope. Y’shtola is her friend, who she likes to eat with, sleep with, wander around town with, and have close whenever possible -just like now- because she cares about her and almost lost her twice before.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? She nearly _lost_ her, and after losing so many others, she can’t fathom the idea of not seeing her as often as possible. Yes, she has a lot of work, and she’s certain the Scions will soon be dragged into stopping yet another cataclysmic event, but that’s exactly why she goes out of her way to visit Y’shtola, or forces Alisaie to socialize.

The world isn’t going to stop for anything, the empire is still out there, and the Ascians grow stronger by the day. They may have survived their latest war, but what about the next? And the next? Will the Scions even face another war, or will they be lost trying to prevent it?

The idea of dying for their duty is hardly unknown to the Scions. It is something they had all prepared themselves for, something they accepted.

It’s a little different being the one willing to die and being the one staying behind, however.

“How has the tribe been faring?”

Shaking herself from her depressing thoughts, she smiles at Y’shtola and places her drink down. “With Castellum Velodyna running more or less smoothly, M’hahtoa and M’rahz have been able to take some of the hunters away from patrol. They have a lot of plans for working with the Ananta and increasing trade, and they were _very_ happy when I told them I planned to have some of my soldiers keep watch over the Qalyana.”

“I presume that is the reason for the alcohol? A thanks?”

Talking about the tribe, the Fringes, and how they hope to improve their home is easy. She has been living and breathing numbers since the war ended -which she hates- but knowing how much they will improve her country is exciting. Unfortunately, the amount of books she has to read makes her job difficult at times. She has always learned better with practical examples, which forces her to frequently call on Raubahn and his expertise with money.

Technically, there are plenty of merchants within the Reach who know their way around money, but most of them are Rowena’s, and she trusts _them_ as far as Alphinaud can swim. There is only a single non-Resistance member she trusts in the Reach to help her with money matters, and that is Jessie Jay, the Ironworks deputy president.

Even better, all Jessie asks for in return is a sympathetic ear as she complains about every last lazy son-of-a-seawolf in the Ironworks.

Their conversation and the night continues on, until her cup is empty, her vision is blurry, her speech slurred, and Y’shtola so close that she is practically in her lap. The bottle of M’hahtoa’s drink is half-empty, though she only remembers pouring herself the first cup. That she feels so inebriated after drinking a fourth of the bottle -she assumes Y’shtola drank as much as she did- is rather impressive; it usually takes half a jug of Riol’s unmixed special rum to put her in this state.

Their conversation had slowed as their cups emptied, but neither complains about having time to enjoy each other’s presence without pressing emergencies or wars or primals to worry about. The alcohol keeps them warm on an already warm evening, but at least they had the foresight to wear light, casual clothing.

Well, in her case, she just wanted to take advantage of her time off and wear the dark red Doman tunic she had bought in Kugane. She had wanted one ever since Yugiri forced her to go undercover as a local, but she never remembered to wear it when she had the chance. Y’shtola, in contrast, is wearing a deep blue Ala Mhigan gown, simple white shirt, and soft pants made for chilly weather. It’s the most comfortable she has ever seen her friend dressed, outside of plain bed clothes.

“I do believe. That I am in no condition for travel,” Y’shtola mutters, head on her shoulder and hand on her knee.

The words float into her mind and linger there, Y’shtola’s voice hypnotizingly smooth to her alcohol addled brain. Though, to be fair, she doesn’t need alcohol to be hypnotized by her friend. She has always loved her voice, loved listening to her narrating boring texts on nights she couldn’t sleep. “M’okay with that,” she says, nuzzling the base of one of Y’shtola’s very, very soft ears. “I want all the time with you I can get.”

Y’shtola purrs, and she is suddenly _highly_ aware of the fingers stroking the side of her knee, of the body pressed against her side, the soft hair her cheek is resting on, of everything that is _Y’shtola_. “Was that your aim? To extend my stay by plying me with alcohol?”

It’s a joke. She _knows_ it’s a joke, in the sober part of her mind. But she is most definitely not sober and the mere _thought_ of manipulating her friend offends her.

“I would never!” she gasps. Pulling away, she twists to face her body to Y’shtola, grips her shoulders firmly and says, “You know that, right? I would never force you to do _anything_ against your will. If you don’t want to be with me, just _say_ and-”

Her ranting is halted by a finger pressing firmly against her lips. “My apologies,” Y’shtola says, voice low. “I meant no offense.”

“Right,” she whispers after the finger moves away. “Sorry. I overreacted. I just. I want you to be happy.”

Humming, Y’shtola smirks and, with more dexterity than should be allowed in their condition, swiftly maneuvers into her lap and returns her head to her shoulder. “I assure you, Lyse,” she says slowly, every word felt as much as it is heard for how close her lips are to her neck. “Being with you is _more_ than satisfactory.”

Gulping heavily, she struggles to gather her suddenly scattered thoughts. It’s hard to focus on anything beyond the thighs clutching her hips, the arm draped around her shoulders, and the hand slipping beneath her tunic, playing with the waistband of her pants. The heat in her blood becomes liquid, pooling somewhere low and dangerous.

“Oh, thanks?” She winces at how strangled her voice is and clears her throat, sitting so stiffly she feels like a statue. She firmly plants her hands on the bed in an effort to keep them from doing something regrettable, but the slight incline in her body gives Y’shtola more reason to press against her, and she almost whimpers at the sensation. “I promise to give you all the time you want.”

“Don’t make promises that you cannot keep, _Commander_.” Her title is drawled in such a sultry tone that her heart stops for a frightening moment.

Wait a second. Wait. Is. Is Y’shtola _purposely_ flirting with her? How long has she been. Oh god. The alcohol has turned her into Thancred! What does she do? Ignore her? No. She can’t ignore Y’shtola. That’s sacrilegious! Should she flirt back? ...No. She wouldn’t even know where to start. This is all because of alcohol, anyway.

Right?

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she says, “Then I will promise to...do my best.”

“Hmm. And if I should ask for _all_ of your time?”

That’s not really possible, but if the world wasn’t what it was and they weren’t who they were… “I wish. You’re worth forever and then some.”

Finally, Y’shtola’s hand stills and she sits up, their bodies no longer touching, but when she brings her face close to hers she thinks that this might be even worse. Her gaze is caught, halting all thought aside from part of her mind that screams that maybe she needs to stop and think about what she’s doing. Except she isn’t doing anything but sitting here and appreciating how affectionate Y’shtola’s smile is and what it does to her pulse.

“As are you.”

She is given no chance to respond due to insistent lips meeting hers. And neither does she care to give one, preoccupied as she is with the hands pushing her down onto her bed and the body that pins her down. Thoughts of giving Y’shtola anything and everything she wants fight to be voiced, but there are cool lips on her neck, hands tugging at the belt -obi, she thinks it’s called- and fingernails scraping her sides once her skin is exposed. Talking is overrated anyway. If there is anything they’ve always had in common, it’s that they are better at showing their emotions rather than speaking about them.

And _this_ show isn’t one she wants to stop.

They hesitate only when hands tug at her pants. Their movements slow, the only noise in the room their harsh breathing while pearl white eyes search her own for a sign. Her focus, however, is on how _delicious_ Y’shtola looks, all flushed and sweaty and half naked. _She_ did that to her. _She_ made her aroused, had her flustered and panting and moaning, and she wants _more_. If she had any doubts, they are born and killed in a single breath.

Hand tangled in silky white hair, she leans into her and asks, “Are you going to make me wait all night?”

Y’shtola smirks, brushes her lips against hers, then backs away. “Patience, love, is a virtue. _However_ ”-a knee presses against her groin, drawing a guttural moan out of her-“I am open to persuasion.”

Her limbs are trembling from anticipation, and she is completely at Y’shtola’s mercy, but with her blood hot from alcohol and desire, she takes it as a challenge.

“I’ve been told I can be _very_ persuasive.”

~Y’shtola~

Waking from slumber is rarely a challenge for her; in fact, her mind begins racing the moment her eyes open, often before she is fully awake.

This morning, however, is not a typical morning. Her mind sluggishly drags itself into consciousness, first and foremost noting _pain_.

Her head, pounding unbearably.

Her throat, dryer than Thanalan in a drought.

Her stomach, more unsettled than the ocean in the midst of a hurricane.

Breathing through that pain takes far more effort than she cares for, but she reluctantly admits that there are none to blame for her condition but herself as she remembers that it was self-induced by an overindulgence of alcohol. Berating herself for being so foolish as to disregard her limits, she takes in the rest of her pains.

Her entire body hurts, but most notable is the soreness in her arms, shoulders, and somewhere rather much lower.

Several things hit her all at once: she is unclothed, there is a body pressed against her back, and the scent of her surroundings is achingly familiar. Taking a slow, deep breath, she struggles to fight the panic and fear. Layer by layer the fog over her memories is peeled away, and though they are not complete, it’s impossible to mistake what has happened.

She is self-aware enough to accept that the alcohol merely encouraged her to act on feelings that already existed, but she had not wanted this; not in this manner.

Lyse has never been a particularly heavy sleeper, so she is not surprised to find her favorite blue eyes blinking open before she completes her struggle to sit up. Neither is she surprised when Lyse squints and groans miserably, cursing the gods and alcohol while she holds her head.

Lips twitching into a smile, she quietly assures her - _what? Friend? Lover? Mate?-_ that she has a potion to help. Her pack is on Lyse’s side table, which thankfully is not so far from the bed. Lyse, as she recalls, had fought with M’naago for an average sized room rather than a larger room, claiming that there were better uses for a room that large. Pretending that her aches do not exist is nigh on impossible, but she forces herself to manage it for the short distance when she feels the weight of Lyse’s gaze on her bare back.

Modesty, she thinks, is hardly a concern at this point.

“I’ll get us some water,” Lyse says, voice rough.

Her ears track her friend’s movements around the room while she mixes the appropriate potions to relieve their pain. She has always considered it pointless to carry medicines specifically for hangovers, as she never indulged enough to suffer from such a fate; a fact she hates herself for with every breath that turns her stomach and sends pulses of pain bouncing through her skull.

The silence in the room is suffocating with its awkwardness. She wants to run, to put as many malms between her and Lyse as possible, that she may think properly. Unfortunately, Lyse has no chairs in her room, and the morning is far too cold to remain next to the sidetable while she drinks her potion and water. With little choice, they sit side by side on the edge of the bed, unclothed but for the blanket and sheet they have draped over their shoulders.

“ _Gods_ , that’s better. Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Your affection is rather easily earned, isn’t it?” she asks, reflexively dropping into their usual banter. Risking a glance at Lyse, she is stunned by the picture she makes, leaning her weight on her right arm, with her head dropped back, her eyes closed, and her white sheet barely hanging on her shoulders. The feeble sunlight streaming in from the small windows near the ceiling only emphasises the muscles earned from years of training and fighting. And decorating those muscles are numerous souvenirs from the night before. Taking in the scratches, bite marks, and hickeys that decorate Lyse’s body, she cannot help the stirrings of desire as she recalls the activities that led to those marks.

Eventually, she realizes that she is rather obviously staring, and that Lyse is watching her stare with a sly smirk that does nothing but fuel her desire.

“They do say that words are cheap.” Humming, Lyse stands, slides in front of her, and languidly drops to her knees, resting her hands on her thighs. Pushing her legs apart, she asks suggestively, “Do you mind if I _show you_ how deep my affection for you runs?”

The inarticulate moan is answer enough, as is her hand immediately grasping the hair at the nape of Lyse’s neck in order to bring her head closer to her wet center.

She, like Lyse, has always preferred actions over speech, after all.

-Though that does not stop either of them from exchanging declarations of love in between gentle kisses after their lovemaking-


End file.
